In The Catacombs of My Mind
by Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare
Summary: I dive into my Mind Palace, winding through corridors and down into the Catacombs, where all my secrets are hidden. In this sanctuary, I have a special chamber for my imagination that I use for my Guilty Pleasure. .:. Johnlock. NOW WITH SEQUEL ATTACHED.
1. Catacombs

I have a Guilty Pleasure that I rarely indulge in, but after doing so once, I knew I could never turn back.

So when I give into it, I make certain that I am utterly alone, or am too entranced by something else (my violin, the ending effects of my nicotine patches, the dozing prior to sleep) to be noticed.

And then, simply, I take the leap.

I dive into my Mind Palace, winding through corridors and grand halls, past the Dungeon, and into the Catacombs, where all my secrets are hidden. The upper floors and rooms are all categories of collected data, trains of thought, and storage places for past cases and relevant facts and information gathered over the years through whatever media (like my experiments, for example). Some people have entire rooms, some cases have entire wings; it depends on the vitality of the case or person in comparison with whatever is fresh and in current priority.

There are, of course, skeletons in my Catacombs, and tombs for those skeletons. Some secrets I like to keep buried, repressed from myself or safely protected from others. (John made me watch a film called _Inception, _and from it, I have learned not to trust technology of the future, nor other people, because they might try to destroy or unlock my Mind Palace, and this is something I cannot allow to ever occur.)

In these Catacombs, I have a special chamber I like to lock myself in for periods at a time. This is my Imagination. It is vast and miniscule in equal parts; where it lacks in creativity, it makes up for in probability. It is like a power source for my deductions: it widens the range of perception and chance to help me narrow down the field to the Most Likely and the Most Definitely due to detail.

But it has other uses as well.

When I indulge in my Guilty Pleasure, this special chamber in my Catacombs beneath my Mind Palace become a sort of realm where I am free to live out any little fantasy I wish. Anything at all; probable, impossible, or in between. It is mine to play with and discover, and mine to _dream_.

When I dive this deeply into my thought process, it is like lucid dreaming for other people. I control all, and it feels relatively realistic, in that hazy way. It is amplified by drugs (opiates, cocaine, or high doses of caffeine and nicotine mixed together), but even without them, I can manage some feeling behind them. Enough that I am left tingling physically, and I can sigh with relief as all those pleasant chemicals are released in my brain: serotonin, norepinephrine, dopamine, oxytocin (something sociopaths are said not to generate, and yet here I am). It fills me with all the right things (joy, light adrenaline, etcetera), these images and vague sensations I create, and I can't help but to faintly smile when I bring them into being.

This Guilty Pleasure wasn't always something I had, something I did, something I used this portion of my brain for. It never occurred to me until relatively recently, and once I tried it, I became an addict. It's a peculiar and unhealthy indulgence, this pleasure, and that is why I deem it a guilty one.

Because, in this empty, moldable space in the crevasses of my mind, this is where I play out every single romantic fantasy I wish that involves my dear flatmate.

John would never approve of any of this. It began as an experiment, a little playful thought, almost a mockery, of all the things said about he and I by others. It was silly, and meant to be brief; but I quickly realized that I liked it. I enjoyed seeing John and I in this new light inside my mind. I took pleasure in exploring things I could try with Imaginary John, things the real John would never allow.

I try not to dwell on the _why._ Normally I would care about nothing except the _why,_ but I can't afford to this time; too much is at stake. If I begin thinking about _why _I like these things, both intimate and sensual, both borderline platonic and heavily seen as romantic, then I might cross a line I dare not cross.

Because if I linger on all my reasoning behind picturing these things with John, I might become unstable, distracted. I could lose sight of the cases. I could become divorced from my work as a whole. I could accidentally blur the lines between Fantasy and Reality, risking my friendship with the real John. Everything could spiral out of control, and all because I stopped to foolishly think about _why_ I fancy thinking, on occasion, of make-believe scenarios in which John and I are lovers.

(Because love is dangerous. Love is unkind. Love is messy. Love is destruction and union, and love is unscientific because it is irrational, in most instances, and utterly nonsensical in some others. Rarely does it have rhyme and reason, and even then, those reasons are so specific to the person experiencing it that it cannot be accounted for as a Sample of Population, and therefore isn't able to be recorded. I despise love for this reason.)

So there it is, in a rather elaborate nutshell: whenever I please, and whenever it is convenient, I slip into a semi-trance and experience any little thing I desire. And John is the hub of it all.

#

In one fantasy, I have a timeline full of events. Thus far, it includes John and I meeting as we had, but instead of declining his (non)advances, I consented to them. We ate together, chatted, made witty remarks, laughed. The case wasn't happening; I made it already solved, and we were celebrating our victory with a meal that wasn't as rushed as the Chinese we had afterward. We were at Angelo's, and he brought a candle to our table to make it more romantic, and John was shy but kind as always, and I made sure to be just as polite and focused on him as he was on me.

Following that basis, the fantasy continued to evolve. Small circumstances in which I reached for John's hand and grasped it in mine, fingers playing with the muscles in his hands, feeling the bones gently, and rubbing over the tendons. Memorizing his fingerprints with my own, sensory and analytical and chaste and with delicate care. And John, once I finished studying his hands, in turn took mine and inspected them, massaged them, and held them, and pressed his mouth to them, not quite a kiss.

And following that, I have a small string of events of stolen kisses in alleyways, behind policemen's backs, and in taxi cabs. Hidden moments of lips on lips, lips on hair, lips on knuckles, lips on necks, and lips on cheeks and jaws, in any place I knew we could get away with it.

Leading up with all of that, I let this particular fantasy build and build with each revisit to it until John and I were entangling our bodies for the first time, unsure and careful and infatuated and inspired. I worshiped his body, and he, in turn, was fascinated with mine, and at some point, it wasn't sex, wasn't "lovemaking," wasn't anything but keen interest in how the other's body was formed. Arousal gone, awe piqued, and trust at its fullest. I prefer this bit to sex, anyhow; it's less animalistic and more scientific. A study of skin, an experiment in texture and taste, and more often than not, when I picture these moments in this timeline, it is not sex with orgasms or keen pleasure, but instead a show of affection and appreciation and trust.

And in the end of this fantasy (where I currently have it left off), John and I are an item but not a couple, because we are an item in the Real World from my Mind Palace anyhow, except in this version, we share a bed and more contact on a daily basis.

#

In another fantasy of mine, I allude to an instance in which John and I meet accidentally and not through a third party. This fantasy is special, because in it, John and I do not have the same dynamic we do in the Real World. We are not the push-and-pull, yin-and-yan we are normally; instead, we are less of a balanced contrast and instead are more alike, and therefore, not as close.

Now, I like this one because it gives me a feeling for how my life would be without John the way he is to me. It's a world I use to remind myself, on occasion, why it is so essential that I never lose John as a friend in the Real World, because in this fantasy, I hardly know him, and we are colleagues, _true _ones, ones that do not live together, but are co-workers nonetheless. Friendly, but not friends. Allies, but not inseparable. Acquaintances, I suppose, but a bit more familiar than that, because we are on the same team, working toward the same goal, and if convenient, we do, in this fantasy, share a lunch or cup of coffee together.

This fantasy is one I don't indulge in unless I have angered John somehow in the Real World and require a good lashing for it. A personal lashing I give myself. I use this fantasy to say, 'Sherlock, do not be a fool. Make it up to him somehow, or else he will become how he is in this fantasy.'

And I don't want that. Because this fantasy is too simple, too empty, too boring. I don't like being distant from John. It's too close to how I lived before I met him, and in retrospect, I was nowhere near as content with my lifestyle then as I am now.

#

In yet another fantasy, John and I are married. Legally wed, rings and all. Domesticated. We have an adopted child, Caleb Hamish Watson-Holmes, whom John affectionately calls, 'Cale,' and whom I respectfully call, 'son.' In my fantasy he is usually a young boy, aged ten years or younger, and more often than not, I keep his hair brown and his eyes green, with or without scattered beauty marks, and always with pale skin like mine, but kind eyes like John's.

In this imaginary situation, I am a detective, a normal, dull one, and John is a doctor, a normal, dull surgeon. He never went to war, and I never used my abilities selfishly. I never used drugs, never smoked, and John never drinks. We are predictable, plain, and homey. We love our child, and our child loves us, and when he is bullied for having homosexual parents, he punches the lights out of his bullies, and when he is given detention for it, I argue against it, because I also have the mind of a lawyer.

And in it, Caleb is bright, nearly as bright as me, and generous, nearly as much as John. And he is my successor, and John's, because he was raised to be the best of both of us. He is clever enough to study hard and graduate University by age seventeen, if I let him be old enough in the idea, and he is a regular genius, but not quite of my eccentric nature.

I like this fantasy because it is pathetically overdone and human. And sometimes, I wish for normalcy like this. There are rare moments were I feel vulnerable enough, insecure enough, to actually want a life like this. So I live it out here, in the changing room of my Mind Palace, and I silently pray there is a child in the world one day who is like Caleb, because the world would benefit from someone who is perfectly all the best (and barely any of the bad) parts of John and I combined.

#

If I am in the mood, sometimes I will give way to a more carnal, basic human urge, and I will fantasize sex between John and I.

I have never thought much about sex, nor cared for it. As always, sex has been a good motivator for revenge/jealousy in crime, more often than not in cases of infidelity and rape surrounding homicide. And sex makes one's mind temporarily useless, which is something that sickens me. But with John…

Well, let's simply say that I would make an exception in my distaste for sex when it comes to John.

I am emotionally attached enough to John to not feel as though the sex would be meaningless. Sex in which one person feels used and abandoned afterward is haunting. Irene Adler offered herself in such a way; lustful for me, asking for a one-night stand sort of ordeal in which she could fulfill some fantasy and use my body for her pleasure. There were some feelings attached, I know, but none I returned the way she meant them. She interested me because she was moderately clever and a schemer who could lead me closer to Moriarty, but other than that, sex with her would have been pointless and unsatisfying.

Sex with anyone, for me, would be like going through the motions, and I doubt I could even become aroused, and if I somehow did, I doubt I could maintain it, or climax. For this reason, this disinterest in procreation, I slapped the label of 'asexuality' on myself.

However.

There is much tension I feel when I am in too close proximity to John, and urges flare up every now and again in the form of whispered, half-baked ideas. Things like, 'touch him,' 'kiss him,' 'feel his hair,' 'sense his warmth;' among other things. They have come and gone through the forefront of my mind many times since the night he was captured by the smugglers during the case John wrote as, _The Blind Banker,_ because something about him in danger triggered it within me, a new value for his life.

And so, here, in the expanse of this strictly sexual string of fantasies, I elaborate on those ideas, fully baking them into semi-being.

I imagine kissing John, open-mouthed, tongue overlapping tongue, lips swollen and mouths wet and jaws aching from all the pressure and heat and kissing _kissing __**kissing**_, and my erection tight and nearly painful in my trousers, my hips instinctively gyrating against John's thigh or hipbone or his own clothed erection, and following that, all of the eager, hungry tearing of clothes and nipping and sucking of skin, lower and _lower_ and _**lower,**_ until one of us has the other's length in our mouths, slipped past the lips and teeth and gulping down the throat.

Sometimes I go further than that. There are fingers in entrances, mine or his, it depends on my mood, and there is thrusting and writhing and gasping and moaning followed by shrieks of pleasure as the prostrate gland is struck and rubbed and thoroughly examined until the one being teased comes violently and deliciously timed.

And then, sometimes, I feel John inside of me, or I take the role and am inside of him, and the joining of us is blissful and brinking on painful all at once, lubrication slippery, and members sliding in and out with or without condoms (I am not always precise with that; I get too lost in the fantasy to remember that they are needed and/or preferred during the act).

(And during those fantasies, I internally vibrate with the craving, feel my nerves hum with the secret wish, and I feel bitterly chilled and ashamed afterward, because sometimes the mental stimuli is enough to trigger physical effects, and I am left with the tedious need to change pants.)

The sessions of these purely sexual acts range from the minor to the graphic, and there is always as much touching as possible. Body alignments and particular positions and placements to make it so I can kiss John through it all, or hold him from behind, or have our bodies touch almost entirely from head to toe, or have him hold me up against a wall, my limbs clinging to him, his hands on my rear end.

Anything. I imagine anything that suits my fancy, because while I don't usually go straight for these more traditional concepts for 'fantasies,' I do like them on occasion, late into the night, because of some triggering event from the Real World or something or another that led me to such a risqué train of thought.

But almost in every one of these physical pleasure fantasies, there is something extra. Never dirty-talk; that is below me, and John is too polite for it. No, none of that. Instead, we are being bonded emotionally as well as physically, and sometimes, when I am lost in these moments…

I imagine us crying out the other's name upon orgasm, or us whispering an, "I love you," to the other post-orgasm.

And, somehow, it's these little slip-ups of my own mind that make me feel all the more guilty for having the fantasy in the first place.

#

And finally, there are the fantasies in which I do something to make John not awed by me, not proud of me, but happy because of me.

I don't think I have ever made him truly happy, not in the Real World. But in my Mind Palace, I am able to do more than make him smile or laugh; I am able to do more than take away his loneliness, and in some ways, do more than shower him with affection or admiration like his fleeting girlfriends.

Instead, I am able to do something in the fantasy in which John will look at me, cheeks pink or eyes soft or both, and his mouth speechless and his heart swelling visibly by the way he breathes in so slowly.

I make him happy to know me, to be my friend, to have me as a flatmate.

Sometimes I accomplish this by thinking of bringing him breakfast in bed when he is sick. Once, I made it so I reached this goal by massaging his back of all the tension he held in his sinews, and was able to work out every last worry, stress, and pain until he was utterly lax and asleep under my ministrations. And another couple of times, I made him happy by buying him something he wanted but would never spend the money on himself for, and something that, naturally, only I would know to buy for him because his girlfriends are unobservant and too short-lasting to get to know him well enough to buy it for him.

In these fantasies, I am usually thinking of ideas on how to keep John by my side in the Real World. However, I never act on any of them, save for the one time I did think to prepare tea for him in the afternoon after a long day of doing errands for me.

But I wish I could do these things. I wish I could make John _happy. _No one has ever been happy because of me, and if I were to choose anyone, I would want John to be the first and only. But when I think about it, truly and deeply think on it…

I know that I could never do any of these things.

John would think it too intimate. I might scare him off. He would see it as me making a move on him, not being the supportive and caring friend I want to come off being, because, as a habit, I am not this sort of person. I would never willingly (or unwillingly by gunpoint) perform a selfless act for someone else. I would never be considerate or touchy-feely enough to give someone – even John, my best friend – a back massage. I would never make someone a meal, be it soup or a breakfast or anything. I would not take care of someone. I would not waste my money on someone.

Because, in Reality, I am Sherlock Holmes, He Who Only Cares About Himself. And John knows that. Everyone knows that. I think too logically, and logically, it would be illogical to do something solely for the purpose of "making another contented in some way."

Normal people might do it, but they gain nothing from it, and I am all about purpose and gain. It's how criminals work, and even though I am not a criminal, I keep my mind working the way theirs do, because it is the only way to catch them.

So, in the end, I usually push off these fantasies to the side and never revisit them, because I would never actually carry one out, and John would never understand or allow it. He would think I was up to something suspicious, something secretly unkind and out for my own interests.

Because, sadly, even John wouldn't believe that I care about him enough to want to see him made happy by something I've done especially for him.

#

And there it is. Those are my fantasies, those are all my Guilty Pleasures: imaginary moments that I can never actually share with my dear doctor. John Watson will never be made aware of these imaginings of mine, and I will never see a day in which they are realized.

So in the vaults of my Mind Palace they will stay, buried along with my skeleton-secrets, under the floors and in the walls and down in chambers so dark and deep that no one will ever find them, save for me, when I want them.

#

Tonight, I think I will imagine a specific Guilty Pleasure in which I come to John. I will come to him in the middle of the night, find him asleep in my bed, and I will hang my coat up on the back of the door and I will watch him a short while, perhaps touch his face ever so gently, and brush the hair from his forehead.

And I will climb into bed with him, wrap my arms around him, feel the breath from his nose on my chest, the tickle of his fringe under my chin, and I will close my eyes and dream with him.

Because tonight, I am dead. I have been dead for a while by now, and John has finally made himself return to the flat, _our _flat, and he has, in some drunken stupor born of depression and too many drinks with his sister, he climbed into my bed, inhale the lingering fragments of my scent, and fell asleep with a tear or two leaking from the corners of his eyes, slipping over the bridge of his nose and falling to the pillow as he curls onto his side.

In Real Time, this is mostly true. I know John is depressed. I know it is my doing. I know I have hurt him, have left him behind, and I know that I had to leave in order to save his life.

I had to take the Fall, the dive from the edge, and not into the safe haven of my mind. Instead, I had to fake my death, and break the hearts of the few scattered souls in London who actually care that I am gone.

With this fantasy, I will myself not to cry outwardly, because I miss John so. I ache for his presence, his company, his choppy typing with his two or three fingers, and his blogging of my part in his life. I miss having him tag along with me, because I am lonely, I realize. I am lonely as I track down the web of criminals and assassins and hackers under Moriarty's employ and influence, and I understand, finally, how much I need John's help and instinctual protection.

So I imagine a moment where I return to him, feel him stir awake in my grasp, see me in the dim moonlight streaming from the parted curtains of my bedroom window, and see his face shatter and cry over me, his hands clinging to my person.

I fashion a sort of dialogue, something along the lines of, "I'm sorry…" and "You're alive!" and "Thank you for this one miracle," and "I owe you so much, too," and feather-light kisses like little exclamation points, followed by little gasps of air and sobs like little ellipses. And then, of course, a simple statement of our names. "Sherlock." "_John_."

And it would be enough, if I could have that. Just a moment, just a glimpse. An embrace in the shroud of night's blackness, a muttered apology, an acceptance, a discovery of a lie. A lie I had to make to preserve his life, but a lie I could gently undo by at least easing his pain, even if by merely a smidge.

Sighing, I wind my way out of my Mind Palace and open my eyes, lashes fluttering slowly. They are damp, but there are no tear trails on my face.

And tonight, I finally allow myself to lift the denial for a fraction of a moment to know, as a fact, that I am in love with John Watson, and that the fantasies may one day not be enough.

But I will cross that bridge when I come to it. For now, I have bigger, more dastardly fish to fry, the least dangerous of which being the fact that I have crossed that forbidden line I set for myself by growing a metaphorical heart.


	2. Sequel: Secrets, part I

**# # # - In The Back, In The Closets Of My Mind **

When I see John again, he does not know me.

Carting groceries in his grasp, he paces the length of the sidewalk and turns a corner, out of sight. I am across the street from him, down a ways, perched at a bus stop in clothing not my own. He would not recognize my build, my height. He would not, because I am stooped low, faking a limp, with aging makeup on my face.

No, he does not know me. He wouldn't even if I spoke to him, looked him in the eye. I'm wearing brown colored contacts. No, he would not know me at all. I am still in hiding. I am still hunting. I am no one to him, and rightly so. Being invisible will protect him. Being invisible is all I have right now.

I don't even have my Guilty Pleasures. I have been too busy to sit down and craft one. The last one I partook in was over a year ago. There has been so much to do. So much. And this is my first time in a long time being out and about in London in the daylight. The first time in a long time I have had to fully disguise myself, not merely in clothing and voice, but all over. It's itchy. It's tiring.

It's beyond upsetting.

Because I _could _hike all the way up to where John is, pretend to bump into him, and perhaps swipe something he bought to use as an excuse to follow him home and 'return' it to him ("Oh, now, m'lad, you seemed to 'ave dropped this when we bruised by one 'nother. 'Ere, 'ere, lad, take it; wouldn't wan' to be without beans, now, would ya?").

It would be so easy. I could do it just to see his face up close again, just to hear his voice again, just to catch a whiff of his familiar, homey scent again. Even with my new phone, I still know his number. I could even send him an anonymous text, just to give him a scrap of hope.

But I can't do it. I can't put him through any unnecessary pain it might cause if I sent him a text, or if I accidentally gave myself away, even while in character, under the guise of an elderly man in a plum trench coat.

Sighing to myself, I wobble on and go about collecting the last of my data. It's all I need before I set a trap to capture Colonel Sebastian Moran, the last of the fiends I have had to track down. The killer meant, in fact, for John's head. The most important of the entire web.

And without the spider – for a while I have thought he faked his death, like I had, but no, Moriarty is truly dead; it would take my brother to cover it up cleanly enough if he were still alive in secret, but my brother wouldn't do such a thing, so Moriarty must, then, truly be gone – the web is disintegrating, going wild without the control and repair the spider brought. His men are turning on each other, and it has only aided me thus far, and I am praying it will aid me further to catch Moran.

#

Cornered. No, no, this won't do. No. Need an out, need an out…

My eyes search wildly. I am in my Mind Palace for a moment. The streets of London. The roads, the alleys, the most likely places the police will be, the nooks and crannies where cabbies wait and people are in larger crowds.

I need to disappear.

I slip out from my place behind a dumpster and wind around bins. He hasn't seen me yet; good, good. Need a decoy. Need an out.

I follow the preferred route I have established in my head and come out of an alleyway into a crowd waiting for a bus. I slip through them, unnoticed, and Moran has lost me. I shrink my size and flip up my collar.

I'm gone. I hear him pace angrily away, cursing viciously under his breath.

Too close. Far too close. I need a plan, something more stable. A decoy, a decoy, to lure him out to where I want him, instead of him catching me by surprise.

Oh, but he's seen me now. He knows I'm alive. Shit, shit. He could go after John. Use John as bait. Kill John. There are no others to alert, not anymore, but Moran still has his guns. He still is the best sniper Moriarty had. He can and will find a way to kill John, because I lived, and then kill me.

No. That won't happen. I just need –

Ah.

I'll go to him. To John. He can help me. More importantly, I can keep him near, keep him safe. I must go to him now, before Moran gets to him. Oh, this is not as planned, not at all, but it will have to do. It is the only way.

The only way.

#

I don't make a fuss of it. No tricks. I wind my way through back alleys to Baker Street and knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson answers and starts to tremble and cry. She ushers me in. She holds me tightly at the bottom of the stairwell, doesn't move from the entranceway. She blubbers a few things, the expected: "Oh, Sherlock! You tricky man, you're alive! How? Why?" and so on.

I shush her and ask her, gently, if John is in. I know he is. I know she gave him some slack with the rent because this is his only home, and while it's difficult to afford by himself, he has a stable job at Bart's, now, full-time, and can pay for most of it, but for the bit he can't manage, she lends him without expecting it to be paid back, because she doesn't want to force him out, and he doesn't want to leave. I can read it all by the wear of the rest of the flat, in the state it's in, unrepaired in at least two years or more.

"Yes, he's in. And oh, I can't begin to imagine how he'll react when he sees you, dear," Mrs. Hudson tells me as she dabs her eyes with her sleeve and sniffles loudly. Her wailing will have gotten John's attention, and he will be calling down from the top of the stairs any moment now, asking if she's all right.

Right on cue, "Mrs. Hudson? Are you okay? I thought I heard you crying," comes John's voice from above, and his steps on the stairs.

Halfway down, he must see my hair. Or my coat. Either way, he slows, and Mrs. Hudson looks up with pink eyes. She pats my arm. "I'm alright, John, dear. Please, come down."

John timidly takes the remaining steps to see us in full view. He blinks. Swallows. He stares at me with those dark blue eyes of his, stony and steely after three years. He looks the same as I remember. Time has hardly passed. My breath catches in my chest and I puff up from lack of oxygen. I can't seem to remember how my lungs function.

"Sherlock," he murmurs, and he sways for a moment. He grabs hold of the railing to stabilize himself. He swallows again, dryly this time. His blinks are slow, his eyes wide. "You – you…"

"I wish there was time for pleasantries, John," I say on autopilot, my tone much sterner and colder than I would have liked. To him, I must seem as though seeing him affects me little, if at all. But that is far from the truth. This is my default. This is how I am when I, too, am stunned. God, I've missed him so. And seeing him in the familiarity of Baker Street brings back memories, ones of us panting after I cured his limp and ones born of my Guilty Pleasures. I shake off both and stand up straighter, hands seeking my pockets. "But you are in danger. I have brought it upon you again, and there isn't time to lose. I must correct my mistake before it harms us both."

"Oh, my," Mrs. Hudson gasps. "Always getting him into trouble, you are! First thing back from the dead, and –"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson," I say lowly, a bit threateningly, keeping myself from snapping at her (she doesn't deserve that). "You can reprimand me all you like later, but this moment is crucial. It's the moment before he is upon us. We need to make the most of this time to create a decoy of some sort, something to fool him so we may sneak out the back and surprise him."

She sighs. But, bless her, she nods. "Very well. Is there something I can do, Sherlock?"

"Yes, in fact," I reply. "Do you have any sewing dummies?"

"Oh, in fact, I do. I have to hem all my own clothes, you know. I am so short," she chuckles nervously, turning and hobbling into her flat. "One moment." She doesn't even question what I need it for. She knows it must be more important than making a hem. It will be female-shaped, unfortunately, but I am slim in build and I can stuff the clothes I will need to put on it, and hopefully that will give it a more masculine appearance.

I turn to John. He is still frozen on the stairs. I begin to ascend, and he takes a few steps backward, keeping his eyes fixed on me, like I told him to do three years ago.

"Now, John," I say as gently as possible as I continue pacing up the stairs, and he continues stumbling back, "I need you to go back into the flat, but avoid the windows. Keep to the kitchen if you can. We are dealing with a well-trained sniper. Do you have the curtains already closed, by chance?"

"O-one of them, yes," he informs me. "Sherlock –"

I shake my head, and thankfully, he withholds his questions, ones I know he has. How I survived, how I planned it, where I've been, what I've been doing, why I left him behind. They are all the standard questions I expect he would have. And then some.

He nods once, curtly, like a salute. He turns and heads upstairs as directed. John, always ready to trust me, ready to obey.

I shiver unexpectedly, and I don't know why. Adrenaline? Anticipation? Nerves in general? Or is it something subconscious, a moment from a fantasy slipping through? I can't tell; my head is racing too much, trying to save our skins, to begin to fathom why my body is reacting the way it is, with my tone of voice and movements and gooseflesh. It could all mean nothing. It's pointless to dwell on it. Everything is transport, I remind myself.

Mrs. Hudson brings up the sewing dummy. I dress it as best I can in my clothes; John kept some of them. I don't ask, and he doesn't say. He simply hands them over to me, and I manipulate it to look like my silhouette. It has no arms, no head, so I improvise. Rolled blankets, other clothes; vegetables; anything lying around that I can use. I add the hat, the deplorable deerstalker; Moran will recognize it from my photos in the paper all those years ago.

I set it up near the open window without giving myself away. I have John stay back; Mrs. Hudson, too. I move it slowly into place.

A bullet goes straight through it after fifteen minutes of making it appear natural, moving about and the like.

"He's out there," I announce, standing up in some of the safe zone and stretching my limbs. Fifteen minutes of crouching can't be good for my legs. I think there is a cramp in one of them. I try to work it out as I rattle off instructions to Mrs. Hudson and John. "He will need confirmation somehow that he succeeded in shooting me. But we don't have time to wait for that. We need to move. He could already be leaving the building across from us, and we need to catch him. Mrs. Hudson, ring the police; tell them there's been a shooting. Make sure to sound panicked. –John, grab your gun from where you've stashed it, and come with me. Hurry!"

It takes less than a minute to assemble, for Mrs. Hudson to frantically speak to the emergency operator. Then, within what feels like the shortest of moments, we are upon him.

And Moran doesn't go down without a fight, but once the police arrive, he's surrounded.

He spits at my shoes. He says a string of curse words so vile I never thought they could be put together. And then he goes silent. Deadly silent. And they cuff him and put him into a car, and I watch him in the rear window as he's driven off.

And then… That's it. I've done it. I've won.

Lestrade saw me. Donovan, too. They were among the police force that arrived for the arrest. They know I'm alive, now. I can begin my life anew, take back what I lost. Like John. Like my residence in Baker Street. The whole shebang. It can be mine again.

I believe it will take a great deal of time for that to sink in.

#

John surprises me once again.

He doesn't ask any of the questions I thought he would. None of the ones he ought to ask, anyhow. Instead, he asks things like, "Are you okay?" and "That was some adventure, wasn't it?" and "Aren't you glad to be alive again?" and "Did you miss me?" all said in odd tones.

He asks if I'm okay in a sincere tone, like usual, but the 'adventure' one is rhetorical and a tad exasperatedly spoken. Asking if I'm glad to be alive is said bitterly, sarcastically, because John feels hurt. And then, in a tone I have never heard him use before when directly speaking to me, he wonders if I've missed him, and if I didn't know any better, I would say his tone for it is just shy of being like the sort a lover would use.

I'm dumbfounded by each and every remark. They are the only things John says to me within the first thirty-seven hours of my return. I've noted each one in my head, written them down after he's gone to bed, pouring over them, wondering what they mean, their categorized tones following the quotes with a dash mark.

I put down my pen and steeple my hands. I press them to my mouth and nose, breathing measured, and close my eyes. I dive into my Mind Palace.

I take a few turns here and there, looking for John's corridor. He has the majority of the east wing in my palace, and it isn't difficult to navigate myself there, sifting through information about John to try and place what underlying meaning he's slipped into those phrases by using those specific tones.

At the time, I answered them literally. I said, "I'm fine;" I said, "It was quite the adventure, yes; like told times;" I said, "Yes, I am very glad, in fact;" and I said, "Of course I did, John. You are my blogger, remember?" (which implied the reference to what I told him before, in jest: 'I'd be lost without my blogger.' But I was lost without him. I hope he inferred that. I meant to infer it).

My Mind Palace fails me, for once. It cannot give me the proper deductions regarding John's word/tone choice, not for all of them. The 'okay' question is simple enough. Even the 'adventure' remark is. But the last two… I cannot place those.

Sighing, I walk my way toward the entryway of my Mind Palace, about to leave, when I hesitate. John is asleep at the moment. He wouldn't know if I weren't doing the same. If I stayed at this table, hunched over it, elbows on its surface, my hands pressed to my face. He wouldn't know I was thinking. He wouldn't know if I dipped into my underground sanctuary for a passing moment. He wouldn't know if I indulged in a quick fantasy, the briefest of Guilty Pleasures.

A slight smile quirking one end of my lips, barely noticeable, I pivot on my heel in my mind and pace down, down, _down:_ beyond the cellar and all my skeletons and other chambers until I locate my imagination.

Ah, the room is just as I left it so many months ago. A blank, white slate. Perfect. I drag a memory from earlier today, but I throw out the level of danger into the dustbin and place Mrs. Hudson in her flat. It's just me at the bottom of the stairs; I let myself in. And it proceeds like this:

_I pace slowly up the stairs. I skip the one that creaks. I knock on the door to our flat. I'm nervous, but excited, happy. I am bubbling with energy, my innards lighting up and filling my chest with fuzzy anticipation. John doesn't answer at first. I know again, casually. _

_Finally, John's calling out, 'All right, all right; hold your horses.' And his footsteps approach, and I rock on my heels, my hands clasped behind my back. He swings open the door._

_I smile minutely at him. He gapes. He blinks once or twice, then tears pool in his eyes, but they don't spill over, only make his eyes a little pink. He squeezes them shut and shakes his head. 'This can't be real,' he says, and I step forward and touch his face with the lightest of grazes of my fingertip to his cheek. _

'_It is real,' I assure him. 'I've come back, John. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting so long.'_

(And I am aware that John would never do this. Never be this way. It is almost demeaning, thinking he would be like a movie's rendition of a war bride waiting for her soldier to return, but I want to think of him this way, just this once. I want a scenario where I am welcomed back into his life with open arms and kisses. I want to pretend that this could be real. Just this once. It's my indulgence, after all.)

_And he opens his eyes and presses his face into my chest and wraps his arms around me, murmuring how glad he is that I'm back. He doesn't care why I did it, he trusts my judgment, and he wants to know all about how I did it. He ushers me inside and takes my coat for me. Then he turns back to me, his eyelids lower, and in a moment of passion and relief and joy, he crashes into me, standing on his toes, and kisses me with tender force, saying –_

"Sherlock."

_Yes, saying my name, but telling me he realized, in my absence, that he loved me, and still does love me, and –_

"Sherlock?"

(No, we're past that bit, why isn't my mind cooperating? I know I enjoy hearing my name on his tongue, but there's no need for –)

"Sherlock!"

My eyes snap open.

I blink, torn from my meditation, the fantasy ripped like a sheet of paper from a sketchbook, the image gone in seconds.

"John?" I say, looking up from my hands, readjusting my eyes to the light of the room.

"It's after two in the morning, Sherlock," he informs me, his voice groggy, slurred. He's tired. Something woke him; there is water lingering on his hands, near his wrist. Bathroom break, then. He stirred from sleep to pee, just emerged now after washing but not fully drying his hands, and noticed the light I left on, came in to check on me.

"Is it?" I say, aloof. I slide out my chair and stand, pushing it back in as I gather my coat from off the back of it. "I hadn't noticed."

"Were you asleep like that?" John frowns.

I nearly smile. "No. I was thinking."

"What about? You've no cases. We caught that Moran fellow the other day. Is there something on your mind you want to talk about?" he insists, and God, I must love him, because the way he's worried about me, even with how quiet and irritated he's been with me the past day or so, fills me with a kind of happiness I have never felt before. I like that John worries about me. There's a certain kind of high that comes with it.

"Nothing of the sort," I assure him. It's so easy to lie to strangers; I can't seem to formulate this lie and look John in the eye at the same time. So I say it, but I avoid his gaze. "Goodnight, John," I say as I take my coat over my arm and walk past him, headed for my old bedroom.

Mrs. Hudson made my bed for me this afternoon with some old, but clean, sheets. Gave me a few of her extra blankets. Told me I could move back in as soon as I wanted, although I might have to buy a few things over again, seeing as how she donated a lot of it, like my lab equipment. Understandable. It's just good not to have to hide any longer, not to have to be apart from John.

John follows after me and catches my arm. I stiffen on contact, halting my steps immediately. "Hold on, would you? You lied just now, didn't you? You always look me in the eye, but just then, you didn't."

"I'm tired. It's difficult to focus on anything at the moment. My brain has run itself out, and is on backup fuel. I need to sleep, John. We can talk in the morning," I say in a rush. I spare him a glance and force one of my smiles.

John doesn't like it, but he doesn't fight me on it, either. He sighs like he's disappointed in me, and releases my arm. "Fine, then. Have it your way." And he retreats to his room.

I don't know how long my eyes linger to where he's gone. But when I finally blink, I remember to move my legs and slip into my bedroom, closing my door mutedly behind me. I hang up my coat on the hook behind me and enter the bathroom through the joining door. I scrub my face with cold water and recount what just occurred.

John just found me while I was fantasizing. That has never happened before. I'm not sure how to react, what to say. I don't even know, at the moment, what I can tell him tomorrow that will around logical.

I should have said that I had been sleeping. It wouldn't have prompted this.

Sherlock, you bloody fool, I scold myself with an outward scowl as I yank back my bedclothes. You're losing your grip, your control, your precious thought processes. You should have heard him in the bathroom, or down the hall. You should have foreseen this scenario and planned for it. Why didn't you?

I sigh aloud and drop to sit on the edge of my bed. I murmur to myself, "Why didn't I?" before throwing myself down, rolling onto my side in the darkness, and curling up. I am still in my day-clothes. But it doesn't matter to me.

I touch my lips with two fingertips, my eyes falling shut. I could revisit the fantasy, recreate it. I could even change how the moment with John just now played out.

But there is no point, no logical sense to it.

I feel lonelier than I have ever been as I tug up the covers over my body and close my eyes to sleep. Except Sleep seems to be on vacation, and I am left alone in the quiet dark of my familiar – but changed, I can see even in the dimness by how much – room.

#


	3. Sequel: Secrets, part II

**# # # - That's Where Skeletons And Dirty Secrets Hide**

We don't revisit the topic the The Night Sherlock Was Caught In The Act, because John isn't aware I was doing anything, and it seems unimportant, forgotten, by the following morning. And for the weeks to come, there are more things to focus on, larger things.

Like, for instance, our first case together since my faked death.

A client comes to us the second it goes public that I am alive, and while many are unhappy about it – still thinking that I am a phony – most don't remember me at all. This client remembers me, however, because John, apparently, over the course of these past three years, has spoken via comment or e-mail to many fans of his blog who have come to him and expressed that they thought it was a pity I'd died, because they didn't believe for a second that I was a fake, not by the way John wrote about me (and pride fills me again over that, happiness that John had such faith, even before it was questioned, and that others could see that).

This client is one of those people. He wants our help, now, because he's been robbed, but not of his money or valuables, but of some of his personal, seemingly useless items, which is unusual indeed.

I agree to help him, if only to pass the time. Clearly someone close to him stole the items – what use would a stranger have with personal belongings that won't sell for much, if anything? – and judging by the background story he gives, I'm willing to bed the ex-wife or someone very dear to her who would do this for her, like a friend or sister – so the whole case is rather transparent, won't take very long to solve, but I need it. John needs it. We need something to do together.

We don't feel like friends anymore, and it bothers me. We're flatmates again, but we feel distant to one another. I thought he would be too absorbed in seeing me again, alive, that we could go back to our old ways. But I should have known better. It's not that John holds a grudge against me, but he was wounded more than I thought he would be, and that makes for this to be… _ill at ease,_ for lack of a better term in such an unique scenario.

My phone rings and I am tempted to have John answer it for me, get it out of my pocket for me, like I used to have him do. I'll admit my laziness doesn't quite extend that far; I purposely wanted him nearer to me at the time, purposely had him touch me. Excuses are all I have. Excuses me from slipping up one day.

Considering John's current mood, I answer the phone myself. It's Mycroft, but I keep myself neutral. "Hello."

"Hullo, brother-mine," he says with a lengthy sigh. "It seems you're up and about again these days, taking the lamest of cases to keep yourself occupied. I was going to phone you the second Moran was captured – your big giveaway to your livelihood, I might add, but –"

"I hope you realize I really don't care whether or not you called me then or now, or even came to see me. I know it was you who gave Moriarty information about me; I already deduced as much, but John confirmed it for me a few days ago, and I needn't hear your attempts at apologies now," I retort sharply into the phone, just as John walks into the room. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Wait!" he commands firmly. I sigh through my nose, but I bring the phone back to my ear. "I am sorry, you know. And, this one time, I will admit that I was wrong. Doesn't that count for anything?"

A smirk touches my lips. John is staring at me. His eyes on me give me strength. "Actually, _yes._ I never thought I'd hear you say those words, Mycroft. It's a vast improvement to your entire person. You should say them more often."

"Don't get catty, Sherlock," my older brother sighs tiredly. "I only wanted to prevent you from being too angry with me. I thought you wouldn't answer your mobile at all, and when you did, I feared you would yell at me, and hang up."

"Aww, Mycroft has emotions. Tell me, do they make you feel small and human?" I scoff, and I might be enjoying tormenting him a bit too much, but in my eyes, it serves him right.

Textbook sibling rivalry or not, he is my older sibling, and older siblings are meant to protect the younger ones. He did the exact opposite of that, in the end, whether he meant to or not. And I have yet to forgive him for it. We will most likely never be on amiable terms, my brother and I, but I once loved him, once looked up to him, and if he wants any shred of that back, he will make this up to me. Theoretically speaking, had he not captured Moriarty and given him information on me, I wouldn't have had to fake my death. Wouldn't have been conjured to be a phony.

"He's a knob, Sherlock, but try to go a little easier on him, yeah?" John whispers as he walks past me, picking up a few fallen papers near the desk. I make a face at that, a sort of pouting one, because I can't refuse him now that he's said something.

Tedious as it is, I relent with a roll of my eyes. Into the phone, I say, "_Sorry, _Mycroft, I didn't mean that. You called, then, to make amends? I suppose I can allow that. Some money would do. I have none, now. All that I did have was stripped from me by death's fingers. So if you would be so kind, I'll take that as your dues, and we can be peachy."

My tone is awful, and Mycroft doesn't appreciate it, but at this point, I think he's willing enough to do as I say in hopes that we can at least return to how we were before Moriarty. "Very well," he says with difficulty. He clears his throat and names a sum. I bid higher. He, surprisingly, doesn't fight me on it, and that gives me pause. Maybe he means it after all. And maybe I could come to forgive him one day, if he keeps up this cooperative state of being.

Hanging up after our deal is made, I turn to John. "We'll have a bit of money coming in, soon. Hopefully it will pay off your debts to Mrs. Hudson for being allowed to keep this place on your own?"

The doctor is, as always, a little shocked. "I heard! I mean, I know the number you gave him, but he's really giving all of that to you?"

"It will hardly make a dent in his salary, let alone the gross national product. Now then, you're about to ask how I knew about your debt to Mrs. Hudson? Because honestly, John, even you should know how simple it is to work that one out."

He chuckles airily and rubs his forehead. "Come to think of it, it wouldn't be difficult to assume, no. I was going to ask, but I guess my living here alone clears it up. Obviously I couldn't afford a place like this by myself before, and the only thing that has changed is a steady income, but even with that… Yeah, it's not hard to work out. I do have a debt. She insists that it isn't a bother, but I know it is. But you don't have to spend your money on my debts, Sherlock; that's – Well, you don't have to do that. You shouldn't, actually."

"Any why not? You're a friend in need, and I am here to make amends to you much as Mycroft is trying to do to me." I wave his coming sentence aside the second he opens his mouth. "Don't give me that, John. I can read people as easily as children's books. You think I can't read how upset you are with me? You haven't even asked the generic questions I thought you would."

"Which questions?" he frowns, shifting into defensive mode, his arms folding over his chest, his weight leaning more to one leg (his left, I note; the one that didn't have the psychosomatic limp).

"'How did you do it, Sherlock? How did you fake your death?' and, 'Why did you do this to me? Why couldn't you have taken me with you, danger be damned?' – And so on," I say, making my voice higher and lilting my words a bit to mimic his tones and speech patterns.

"Well, first of all, that was a horrible impression of me," he titters, smile bright for a fleeting second, and I cherish it while it lasts.

"I wasn't aiming for accuracy, just a general rendition of your voice," I mutter.

"Secondly," John goes on, shaking his head, one hand on his hip as he steps forward, "And more importantly, I stopped caring. I don't give a bloody fuck how you did it or why you didn't inform me sooner that you were alive. I'm past the point of caring, because the details don't matter. You're back now, and while I'm still a bit irked, I'm just glad I wasn't crazy."

"Crazy? How do you mean?" I say with a frown.

John sighs jaggedly and runs his free hand through his hair. He leans his other palm on the desk, not quite peering down at me, but coming close to it a few times. "I… kept thinking I saw you a few times, or someone who looked like you. And…" This is difficult for him to admit. His eyes are closed for bouts longer than a standard blink. He's hardly looking my way, and when he does, it's not at my eyes. "I kept praying that you did fake it. I kept waiting for a miracle, for you to show up at my door, good as new. Normal people think these things in grief, I guess, but not me. I believed it. Because you aren't the average person, and I hoped that meant you could escape death, defy it. – Besides, you're too arrogant for suicide. You ruddy love yourself, don't you? So I… waited, mostly. Some days I caved in and thought I knew you'd never come back, but most days I trusted you would."

I don't know how long I gawk at John with him staring right back at me, free to look into my eyes now that he's said what he had to. It must be a while, because he leans off the desk and shifts uncomfortably and avoids my gaze again at one point. But I continue to stare.

"John… you're amazing," I say in a near-whisper, too late to catch it before it slips from my mind to my lips. He puzzles at that, cocking his head and looking embarrassed. I blink, look down at my hands. I think I may even be smiling a little. "I can't pinpoint why you are, or why you telling me that makes me think you are, but you _are._ You never doubted me, did you? Not once."

"Only once," John corrects softly. "When I saw your body lying on the cobblestone, blood pooled around your head, no pulse in your still-warm wrist. I doubt you then."

"But not when I was on the phone with you? Or when you were at my grave? You touched it sentimentally, so I thought that meant –"

"You were there for that?" John pales, and he puts his face in his hand, the other on his waist. "No, of course you were. You kept an eye on me the entire time you were 'dead.' That's why I thought I saw you so many times," he mutters. He sighs again and looks at me, hand dropping with an audible sound to slap his thigh. "To answer you, though: no, I didn't doubt you even then. You lied to me on the phone, I know you did. In retrospect, it was to make it easier for me to believe you were dead, and to cope with your death better. Thanks for that, but it wound up not helping at all, because I knew it was a lie."

"You are too clever to be deemed average," I say with a slight quirk of my lips.

He smiles as well. "Living with you must have rubbed off on me," John replies.

I chuckle to myself, my eyes focused on my hands again. I fiddle with my phone, tap it into my other palm. I put it down. "So," I say, lifting my gaze to meet his again, "I will help pay your debts to Mrs. Hudson, we will finish this robbery case in the morning – and yes, before you ask, I have finally worked out who did it and where they stashed the items – and we can finally move on, I hope?"

"Only if you swear to me you won't pull shit like this again," John admonishes, wagging a finger at me. "I don't like it when you go off on your own and I can't follow. Who else is going to save your arse when you get into trouble? Not to mention dress your wounds. You don't trust hospitals for that."

"Indeed I don't," I concur as I rise to my feet and tug down my wrinkled shirt. "So I promise, then. I swear not to pull a stunt like faking my death or destroying a web of criminals on my own ever again. Satisfied?"

"Yeah," John grins. "Very. Thank you." He stretches, yawns. "Now, if you'll excuse me, it's getting late, and I have work in the morning. Goodnight, Sherlock."

I watch him as he leaves the room. "Goodnight, John," I reciprocate idly. I turn to my phone and text our client about meeting in the morning to settle his plea. It's his ex-wife's sister; she took his belongings to avenge the ex-wife, whom didn't get what the settlement agreed on in the divorce, so her sister took it by force. Child's play. At least things can be settled for those poor fools. Normal people are rather predictable.

And cases like this – ones that sound interesting at first, like a robbery of things other than money and valuables, but turn out to be very plain and straightforward – always drain me more than the cases of murder and espionage and hostage situations, because at least those have the thrill of so much more hanging in the balance, and are, in fact, a bit more complex than meets the eye. I live for those cases. I detest ones like these.

But what am I to do? I have to keep my mind off of other things. And this is the only way to do so at the moment.

#

When John comes home the following evening, I have carry out on the table and a check in my hand. I lazily hold it up with two fingers as I stab my fork into the food on my plate with the other. "Here you are, John. Courtesy of Mycroft and myself. Give it to Mrs. Hudson, won't you?"

"You… got food for us?" he says as he shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the chair opposite me. "And the money came this soon?"

"Mycroft's woman – his assistant, you know the one – delivered it herself today in one of Mycroft's cars. And I was hungry, so I did the natural thing and ordered myself some food. And I knew you would complain if I didn't think to get you some, so I ordered what I've noted to be one of your usual choices. Problem?" I ask, raising a brow and looking up from my meal, slipping some food into my mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

John smiles and takes the check. "No, I guess there is no problem, but what, we have one little chat last night and it changes you?"

"I am not changed," I retort a hair childishly. "Don't expect too much. It's only carry out, and what I said I would do. It's getting back to our old routine, that's all."

"Uh-huh," John says. "All right. Okay." He nods a couple times and waves the check. "I'll be right back."

"Mm," I hum around a bit of food, nodding once at him dismissively. I hear his footsteps, down and gone. I eat a few more bites before shoving my plate away. John can take care of it. I ate something, and that should sustain me for a while. I get up and wash my hands before seeking out my violin. Surely John wouldn't have sold it? But I haven't seen it in its usual places: the living room, my bedroom, the storage closet.

The only place left to look is John's room.

I walk without much thought to his room, finding the door open; an invitation as much as any.

In the closet or under the bed? Both are likely storage spots for something like my violin and violin case. Closet first; it is the most likely of the two, considering the sorts of things people put into their closets.

Now then.

I open the door and rifle through John's various shirts, jumpers, and pants hanging on cheap plastic and wire hangers. I give a start, however – fingers twitching, arm tensing – when I find a shirt of mine pushed to the very back of the line of clothing. It's my old favorite, a dark purple dress shirt. I had two because I liked it so much; one was older, tighter on me, and the other was newer, looser. The looser one is the one I "died" in. I still have that one. But my original shirt is hanging here, in John's closet. I know he kept some of my clothes – he brought them out, after all, to use on the sewing dummy to fool Moran – but this one. Why is this one so delicately hanging, ironed, in his closet? The others were winkled, creased; clearly having been folded and packed in a box for months on end. But this one…

I pick up its hanger, touch the fabric. John kept this one preserved. I know it was my most flattering shirt; it highlighted my hair and eyes, it was in perfect contrast to my skin. It made my too-long torso atop my average-length legs look proportionate. This is why it was my favorite. But it must have been John's favorite on me as well, because why else would it be hanging here?

"What are you doing in my room?" comes John voice, and I nearly break my neck as I turn my head 'round, facing the direction of the door. He's in the doorway, hand braced against the frame, assessing me with his eyes.

"I was looking for my violin. What have you done with it?" I demand instantly, stowing away my shirt and stepping back from his wardrobe.

John sends me a questioning look before pacing into the room and moving to his bed. Ah, so it was under there. That was my second guess. He drops to one knee and yanks it out from underneath the dust ruffle, wiping his sleeve across the top. He rises and holds it out to me, his hand gripping the handle too tightly. "Here, take it," he says tightly.

He's been caught. He knows I will ask why he kept my shirt, or any of my clothes for that matter. John doesn't like to shop for himself, probably would wear my clothes out of convenience if they fit well enough, but I know that isn't the case. Sentiment; he kept it out of sentiment. I just want to know which kind.

"Thank you," I say automatically as I take the case from him. He moves to his closet and takes down my bow from the top shelf. He snaps his wrist so quickly that a whipping sound is heard as he offers it to me with a flourish.

"This, too," he says. "Now get out of my room, Sherlock."

I've violated his privacy, and he doesn't like it, because despite my attempts to mend things, there is a lingering adjustment period that has yet to settle fully between us to heal us both. So me coming into his room is "too soon" for him. And he doesn't look embarrassed, but I wager he's seething with it, mingled with irritation.

I hurriedly take my bow from his outstretched hand and promptly exit the room.

I don't feel much like playing my violin anymore. Maybe tomorrow, but not just now.

In the kitchen, John's food is getting cold. And he isn't making a move to eat it up before it turns cold, either.

#

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Admittedly, I was thinking of Brokeback Mountain a bit with the whole shirt thing. Whoopsie. XD**


	4. Sequel: Secrets, part III

**# # # - And I'll Rip Out My Insides**

I toss and turn in my bed. I should sleep. My body is about due for some. It would be a beneficial thing, to sleep. And yet my mind is churning and whirring on an unstoppable and destructive path, as always.

I sigh, fidget. I stand, pace. I take out my violin. I pluck the strings quietly; can't play it in full. I used to, at any hours I pleased, but John is already angry with me, and I am trying my hardest not to be as inconsiderate as I normally am. I am trying to have John forgive me. He thinks he has, but I know he hasn't. I can read him. John surprises me often – forever the anomaly, the only person of lower intelligence (but not too much lower, really) who can – but this is not one of those cases. He is genuinely trying to readjust to me. And I am making an effort for it to succeed.

I sit down on my bed, violin neck in my left hand, its body resting as a familiar wooden weight on my lap.

I fall backward onto my bed, raise my violin to my chest and strum it like a ukulele. I silence the vibrations with a slap.

"Could always go out and turn on the telly, watch something mindless and dull until I drift off," I suggest in a quiet voice to myself. I snort with an almost-laugh. "Like that would do any good. I hate the telly. It's all crap." I sigh again.

I need to sleep. I ought to, and I need to. But sleep is evading me like the plague. My mind cannot rest, cannot relax. There is something fraying the edges of my thoughts, something nagging me, eating away gray matter; a parasitic concept worming its way through me.

What is it? What does it want? Does it pertain to John? I bet it does. I can scarcely keep him off my mind for long these days, since my return. John. John Watson. Always John, always my dear doctor, always in my mind, more so now than ever, John_John__**John.**_

"Ahh!" I yell in a whisper, one of the most contradictory of sounds, but perfectly accurate to my current situation. I rolls over onto my stomach, arms dangling above my head, half off the edge, violin nearly scraping the floor. I groan in frustration into my mattress.

Bored. Bored, bored, _bored._ (John.) Faked death. Cases: no case. (John: Is there an apology he's waiting for that could set things right?) Violin: unhelpful. 4 AM and counting. Bored. (_John_.)

Sighing for a third time, I roll onto my back, sit up, pack away my violin. I turn on a lamp near my bedside and prop up my pillows against my headboard. Then I sit, sheets strewn about my crossed legs, and close my eyes.

If there is nothing mentally stimulating or relaxing enough to find on my own, then I shall have no choice than to create something. Haven't had a basis in a while; I remember all my old fantasies, have them all categorized and filed, buried as skeleton-secrets, but I long for something new. And something constructed from today works as well as anything.

#

Mind Palace. Downstairs. Catacombs. Walls, skeletons, chambers. Imagination Room.

#

Small outward smile. Here I go.

#

_Unlock the door, dance inside. Fill it with Baker Street, John's bedroom. I am at his closet, purple shirt in hand. John enters the room, surprised at first, but soon sighs and sits down on the edge of his bed. 'What's this, then?'_

'_You kept my shirt,' I say. 'Why?'_

'_I missed you,' he answers. He pats his bed, gesturing for me to sit beside him. I hang up the shirt again and step over to him, watching him watch me intently. I take a seat, hands on my knees. John props his right hand up on his right knee, fingers turned inward, elbow bent at nearly a right angle. He leans into it and peers sideways at me. 'Of course I would keep something of yours. You're my best friend.'_

'_Best friends don't keep each other's clothes. Flatmates, either. There is another reason. Sentiment, but which sort? Why keep it?' I repeat. I need to hear John say it. I need to have the delusion of what it could mean._

'_Fine,' he concedes reluctantly, dropping his hand and lying back. He covers his eyes with his forearm. 'I kept it because I missed you more than I could handle, and God, it still smelled like you for the longest time.'_

'_You kept it because you're in love with me,' I whisper._

'_Good deduction, yeah,' John replies, blowing air out his mouth as he removes his forearm from his face. He looks up at me from down the length of his body to my back right. I lick my lips. He says, 'But you don't feel that way about me. You don't feel that way about anyone. You can be interested in people – The Woman was proof of that – but you don't love them.'_

'_Not true, John,' I murmur, turning, lifting one leg to rest, bent, in front of my body, my arm leaning back to support me. 'Not true. No one has held my interest as long as you. No one can withstand the insufferable – _me _– as long as you have. And I appreciate that, I do. And I care about you. Doesn't that tell you enough?'_

'_No. Say it. Tell me,' John demands, and he wouldn't demand it, but in my mind, he does. Sometimes I like it better when he takes control for me, eases my mind of making trifling decisions, like when to eat and sleep and how to treat people. I like it that John keeps me in line, helps quiet my mind. I just like to expand it here, make him rule me. He might as well; he's always in my head, always…_

'_I love you,' I profess, turning further until I land on all fours, crawling the width of his bed to place one arm on the other side of his head, and the other bent at the elbow, his neck cradled on the underside of my forearm. I bend down and kiss him, slowly, slowly. I give the apology, the one that Real John might be waiting for, I don't know. 'I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I dragged you into my mess with Moran. I'm sorry I went through your things while looking for my violin. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner how I felt.'_

'_Apology accepted,' he breathes, and brings his hand up to tangle in the wilder curls at the back of my head, dragging me down to kiss me fiercely. I groan against my lips, his lips. I keep my eyes open to watch him, though it's a bit blurred, a little cross-eyed on my part, but he is perfect. He fits me. No one could ever replace John. I hope I am as unique to him._

_I pull out of the kiss to bring up my hand to align with his. I trace his palm with my fingertips. I play across the tops of his nails with mine. I kiss his wrist, flutter my eyelashes delicates against his veins. I take his pulse. It's beating in rapid time with mine, just barely off a quarter of a beat._

_His hand slips out of my grip and touches my face. 'I'm happy you're home safe to me. I do forgive you, Sherlock. Believe that.'_

_I want to. I merely nod. I feel dumb doing so. I always have the final say. But I can't now._

_John leans up, supported by an elbow, and glides his hand down my neck, into my shirt, against the smooth warmth of my upper back. His mouth is at my opposite ear. He licks the lobe, kisses my jaw. His breath is warm on my throat, but cool where his saliva is drying on my ear. I shiver from the contradiction._

_John. So gentle with me. He could be brutal, rough. He's a doctor, a soldier, knows my ways. He could calculate precisely how to touch me without bruising, how to bite me without breaking skin, how to wrestle me to the ground. But he wouldn't do it. He could, but he wouldn't. His nature is too munificent, too demure, for the most part. He has his edge, but he chooses to be affable. My John…_

#

From here, I could turn it into a tender, lovemaking fantasy. I could even make it a non-sexual, intimate fantasy. I could arouse myself, or content myself.

But I only feel vacant, poignant. Lax, in a defeated manner. I pull out of my Mind Palace in stages and let my eyes flutter open. My lashes are damp again, my eyes squinted. (Oh.)

I unexpectedly yawn. I'm sleepy, all of a sudden.

At least that much worked in my favor.

#

In the morning, I wake groggily, and realize that it isn't quite morning any longer. My phone clock informs me that it is after one in the afternoon. How did I sleep so late? I recall getting up around six-something to urinate, but after that…

Stretching, rubbing my eyes, and forcing myself up, I slip on a dressing robe and head out into the kitchen for coffee.

John is smirking from over his laptop. "Finally up, are you? I'd make a Sleeping Beauty or Snow White joke, but then, those require a kiss, don't they? And that _isn't your area,_" he teases, and it nearly makes me spill the coffee grounds.

Sadly, he doesn't know how much _my area _I would have kissing be if the contact came from him. I clear my throat. "Haha, John, very funny. Just the idea of fairy tales is hilarious; who came up with such ridiculous things as spells being broken by kisses from 'true loves' and spells of death-like slumber in the first place? Completely unscientific."

"It isn't meant to be scientific," John snorts as he clicks out of something and shuts the lid on his computer. "It's meant to be romantic and imaginative and _for children._"

"Well, it's turned into the worst cliché and redone into parodies and films and revamped novels the world over, and frankly, I am tired of it," I relay as I wait for the coffee to brew. "Why don't they give it a rest already?"

"Because they're classics!" John protests, getting the way he does when I don't understand very common things for everyone else, like pop culture references (ones that don't pertain to cases, anyhow) and idealized other aspects of society. "And because some people like a little whimsical romance in their lives. It comforts them."

"That's silly. –Why does it?" I scoff, then question curiously.

John sighs. He gives me one of his looks. "Because some people long for it, Sherlock."

"They long to be locked away in towers or glass coffins, guarded by mystical creatures, fast asleep, waiting for their princes to come?" I frown.

He laughs. "No. They long for romance. For that 'true love,' someone they can spend a life with. They like to escape into the fantasy of a world with dragons and mermaids and princes for a while, just so their lives don't feel so repetitive and tiring."

"Ah," I say at last. "So even normal people think their lives are monotonous. That is quite the revelation, John, thank you."

He shakes his head at me. "You don't get it," he says, standing. He puts his laptop on the desk and looks at me in wonder. "Don't you ever long for something more, Sherlock? Anything?"

"New cases. Interesting ones. Serial killers preferable, since they are the most interesting," I say easily enough.

He clenches his jaw, swallows, and looks away. "Yeah, I thought you'd say something like that." And he mills about, picking up various rubbish that didn't make it to the dustbin and moving to toss it out.

"What did you want to hear?" I pry. "That I long for romance like everyone else? I hate to break it to you, doctor, but I am not everyone else."

"I know, Sherlock. I know," he replies offhandedly.

I puff up and say childishly, "What is the matter with wanting different things? Some people immerse themselves in their jobs, in the thrill of action flicks. I immerse myself in the same, although in-person, and on a slightly more obsessive level because of my addictive personality. I crave puzzles, challenges. What more is there?"

"Life, Sherlock," John turns, looking at me with that fire in his eyes that flashes sometimes when he is frustrated with me. I imagine it is not too different from the hungry look he might make in the bedroom. –Focus. _Focus._ "Friends. Family. Lovers. Not just work and challenging oneself. God, will you ever want anything like that?"

"I have what I need," I say quietly. My coffee is ready, but I can't get to it now. John will be even angrier if I seem to ignore him by making my cup. "I have you."

He opens his mouth to say something, falters, wilts like a flower. He sighs in the end. "One friend isn't enough, Sherlock."

I feel my stomach clench. "And, arguably, a few other people. Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade; even my brother. Although," and I grimace, "I prefer not to include him." I lift my chin. "But I have them. I was getting to them."

"No, you weren't," John replies, and I can't decipher the timbre in his voice, the note hidden there, a pang of something in the backdrop that makes my heart flip (impossible, medically speaking, but speed up, definitely). "You almost never include them. You only ever mention me." And his eyes hurt me. Because they look pained.

"Not true. Not true!" I retort stubbornly. How did a conversation about fairy tales escalate into this? I will never understand (try as I might) the dynamic and logic that is shared between John and I. "They were important enough to me to be threatened by Moriarty before I faked my death to save all of them, to save _you!_ You were right, back at Bart's."

"I was right," he parrots, blinking. It reminds me of our first ride in a cab together. "About what?"

"Friends protect each other," I remind him matter-of-factly. "I protected you, everyone. I hurt all of you by pretending to die, but it was for the best reasons."

He didn't know this before. He had surmised much of it, I'm sure – John is astute when he wants to be, when he pays attention – but I never said it aloud. I never told him directly. It might be because of my fantasy last night, but I think I have to say it. I think I have to, because John never asked, but I'm sure he wanted to know. Needed to hear it. He said he didn't, that it was in the past, but I know John. He likes things explained to him.

"You bugger," John curses, but his breathing pattern has accelerated and his eyes are welling up. His hands are in fists at his sides. "You act like you don't care, like you're a cold, heartless bastard, a right asshole, but you're not. You're too selfless in the end, too determined to prove yourself because so many people reject you for your blunt genius."

"Don't psych profile me, John Watson." I threaten, eyes piercing. But he laughs bitterly and steps forward, grabbing me by the arms, his fingers digging into the sleeves of my silken robe.

John blinks, the tears in his eyes gone, his dark blues clear and fixed. "For once in your life, Sherlock, just accept that you are, in fact, a good man." And he drags me down by my clothing/arms and crushes his lips against my parted ones, my teeth squishing the firm thinness of his upper lip.

Wait. Is he really –

Is this actually –

I am not trapped in one of my own Guilty Pleasures, am I? My imagination hasn't gone too far? I'm not insane, believing my own delusions, am I? Because John is pulling away, now, his lips tugging for a moment on my bottom lip. He's staring up at me. Cursing, "God-fucking-dammit," and releasing me, storming out of the room, retreating to his.

I blink, stunned. Yes, John Watson always manages to surprise and amaze me, time and time again. I do the same, I'm sure, but not always in a positive way. With him, it's always pleasant. I am forever pleasantly surprised by his very existence, and when I am not too absorbed in myself, I appreciate how fortunate I am to have him as my flatmate, my friend.

I stumble to the kitchen counter and use it to keep me standing. With adrenaline-tremulous hands, I make my coffee and bring it to my mouth, washing out the "morning breath" taste in the back of it. I blink again, slowly, using the heated mug on my lips to remind me how John's had felt. That _was _real, wasn't it? Real John kissed me and fled?

I'm trying to process it. Not once did I ever think anything I crafted in my head about John could be made into a reality.

And I'm… I'm a little dizzy and giddy because of it.

I grin to myself and only finish half my coffee. Then I aim to take a shower and get dressed for the afternoon, and wonder, briefly, what this makes of us. What I can have it be made into. Or if John wants to forget about the whole thing (which I pray he doesn't, because I want to remember that moment for the rest of my life, and I want to be able to have a billion more just like it, and better).

#

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sometimes I worry that my writing is too dramatic, like an anime, making the characters OOC. You guys will scold me if it gets like that, won't you?**


	5. Sequel: Secrets, final part

**# # # - And Leave Them On Display For You Tonight**

It's nearing nine o'clock. Normally, by now, John has made himself dinner, offered me some, accepted my rejection of his offer, eaten, brushed his teeth, and settled down with either a book, his laptop, or something on the television, be it a DVD or a show.

But he hasn't come out of his room. He hasn't even come out only to leave the flat entirely, as he sometimes does, to get a breath of fresh air from me. When we get into arguments, he often leaves for a walk, or goes out for drinks with another friend, or decides it's time to do an errand run to the bank or Tesco or the like.

Yet he hasn't done any of these things. Hasn't eaten, hasn't gone out. He's been a recluse in his own room. He's… acting a bit like me, when I am in one of my "black moods," as John and Mrs. Hudson call them.

Frowning at this irregularity in John's behavior, I pad down the hall in my socks and ascend to his bedroom. I stand in front of his closed (locked, to keep me from bursting in as I often have before) door and rap my knuckles upon it. "John?" Pause. No response. He could be sleeping? But it's early. I click my tongue. Like any experiment, I try again: "John, you've broke pattern, and I don't understand. Why haven't you come out of your room? For food, or a walk, or any of the things you normally do?"

For the bowels of the beast that is separating John from me, I hear his voice. "What, is this your way of saying you're _concerned _about me, Sherlock?"

I lilt my head back, frowning further. "That is why I came up here, isn't it? You're not behaving like yourself, and it…" I hesitate. Swallow. "It worries me, yes. I am supposed to be the unpredictable one. You're supposed to be the stable one. This is what balances us, our own form of equilibrium. If you break pattern, chaos ensues. Do you want chaos in our flat, John?"

After a moment, I hear him laughing. His bed creaks and I hear his heels thud and his feet sticking to the wooden floor. Barefoot, possibly in his pajamas. Was reading? His laptop is downstairs. He doesn't have a television in his room. "You're already the chaos in the flat with or without me to 'balance you out,' Sherlock," he reminds. His lock turns. The door swings open, and I jerk back a step to give him some space, lest I do something idiotic. He surveys me prior to sighing, hanging his head. Looking up again, he asks, "Are you going to force me to talk about it? Because I'd rather not."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie smoothly, straightening my posture fully. "Now then, if you're hungry, I'd go make something before it becomes too late and your stomach disagrees with you." I turn and head for the stairs. I don't wait to see his reaction; I'd rather not. If he doesn't want to talk about why he kissed me, then neither do I.

Because, clearly, his refusal to mention it means he saw it as a mistake. He must have spent the afternoon and early evening in his room because he was ashamed of it. And in that case, I have my answer, and I needn't speak to him about it at all.

(My bravado is strong, isn't it? But something deep, something from the catacombs, mourns. It makes me feel a stab of pain somewhere, which is ludicrous, because I have no physical wounds, and last time I checked, I'm not one to feel heartache. At least… not in the Real World. Perhaps in fantasy. But this…)

I decide to compose. I could do with a distraction, and writing music always helps do exactly that. I aim for my violin – now located where it belongs, near the window, my old music stand returned to me earlier this morning by Mrs. Hudson, obviously – and bring it to my jaw. I nestle it where it belongs, familiar and solid and trustworthy, and lift my bow to it. Notes, notes, notes… where to start? Where? Which note am I feeling, which note is the chord struck within me, the stab of pain? What note is that? Something low, something sharp, but woeful…

"Sherlock?" John interrupts, the sudden sound of him saying my name making my bow screech across the strings.

"What?" I bark unintentionally. Where I speaking to a woman or a gentler man, they would jump, startled, flustered, ashamed. But John is far from either of those things. He is a brave, honorable man, a soldier. He stands his ground, makes his stance a bit more intimidating, preparing to give a rebuttal, body poised on the offense.

I, meanwhile, steel myself and brace my stance for the defense, the oncoming attack. I set down my bow and let my violin hang at my side, the sleek wood in my grasp making for the perfect sensation to tether me.

"You weren't going to play something familiar, were you? You were going to compose," John observes pointedly, his finger aimed at my bow. "You only compose when you're upset. I've seen it once or twice, but Alder was proof. So, out with it, then! I've upset you. How?"

"Remarkable deduction, John," I sneer, not meaning to, but my body, my tones, act on their own accord. There's no stopping them. I am a train spiraling off-track and there's no halting me, now; I must come to a stop on my own, and if I go down in flames, it will be my own doing. "Yes, very clever. I'm upset. Sudden, isn't it? A moment ago, I was troubled over your well-being, but now, I am prepared to brush it off since you directly stated _you do not wish to talk about it, _and so I am left to delve into my own thoughts by composing some music. Is that so wrong? Can't I have this moment of peace? –Go eat something and go to bed, won't you?"

He does a sort of half-nod and visibly swallows. He head dips, like a bow of shame, and then lifts again defiantly. His eyes have that spark again. His mouth is set in a unyielding horizontal line. (He doesn't know how handsome he is.) I blink the thought away and keep my face pensive, waiting, ever defensive. John steps around his chair, in front of the fireplace, moving closer to me. "So that's what it is, then. I've upset you because I don't want to talk about the stupid thing I did earlier? What does it even matter to you? I thought you wouldn't want to bring it up, either."

"Wrong," I state flatly, turning to put away my violin. So much for music to calm my nerves. So much for the weight of it to keep me grounded. "I very much want to discuss it. I have analyzed it a few times and still don't understand it."

"Have you, now," John remarks. He glances behind him briefly, then backs up to sit in his armchair. "Out with it, then," he says with a broad gesture of his arm. "Tell me what you've worked out."

He looks guarded, immensely fortified, keeping his mask carefully schooled to indifference with a hint of anger, and oh, John, you are very good at preventing others from coming close, aren't you? Almost as talented as I. You have to have been; all that time before you met me, weeks of dragging a limp with you that you knew was in your head, being silently judged for it; having to pretend you didn't have a tremor in your hand, frightful dreams every night, that you were fine and dandy and well. So much time to perfect that blank look you're giving me now, only a twinge separate from my bored expression.

Sighing heavily through my nose, I pace in front of him for a second or two before standing, facing him, and debating whether or not I can sit for this. I can't. I don't know what to do with my hands; I opt to clasp them behind my back. I look down at his waiting gaze, and ready myself to pour out the facts and none of my personal attachment amidst my thoughts of earlier this afternoon. I keep my words fast, the rapid succession not unlike the way I rattle off everyday deductions.

"You have repeatedly defended your heterosexuality, the lack in fancy you hold for men, _any _man, and namely me: You have insisted, reminded, and proclaimed that you are not my date, we are not a couple, we do not sleep together or engage in other sexual or romantic acts, and that you are not gay. So right there, in solely that, the facts gather against your act of earlier today.

"Following that logic, you have never expressed an interest in exceptions or possible bisexuality or homoromantic feelings. I have not seen you 'check out' another man, get close or affectionate with any of your make friends, including myself, nor do I know of any past exploits you might have – but most likely didn't – have with a man of your past, be it in the military or beforehand. This, too, also counters what you did.

"Furthermore, you have never before expressed any feelings for me that go beyond the platonic and friendly. True though it is that you care about me, – that much is evident in the many times you have saved my life or risked yours for mine, and that is an extensive list I will leave your mind to generate examples for, because I don't wish to waste time naming them all in chronological order – I know it doesn't extend as far as love, romantic or not. You care because we are flatmates, because you have a high sense of morality, and because we are friends and colleagues. You wouldn't want me to die any more than you would a victim or our landlady or a member of the police force, and being a doctor, you feel it is your duty to protect others and keep them from bodily harm, or if they come by it, to heal them and ensure their lives are secure.

"This also makes the kiss you gave me a perplexing act on your part, because if it is not sexual or romantic, why was it placed on my lips? People often do odd things in a moment of passion, the flare of emotion too strong for their bodies, but to kiss me? Why not slap me, punch me, kick me, tackle me? And if you were to kiss me for any occasion, why then? Why not on the cheek, or forehead, or hand? Somewhere chaste and platonic, meant to comfort or reassure, or perhaps to express that I am a dear friend?

"In conclusion, it doesn't add up, what you did. I wanted to know, to understand, to account for it. That is all. I also wished to know why it affected you so much as to completely disregard your usual habits and choose to, in place of them, hide out in your room for as many hours as you had."

Finally finished, I take a seat and fiddle with my hands in my lap, my hell of one foot bouncing on the floor, causing my leg to shake with nervous energy. I stare at John, having not looked at him the entire time I speedily voiced my thoughts, and now that I am, I find that he has his face in his hands.

He lifts his head and brushes back his cropped blond hair. The doctor shifts uncomfortably for a moment before looking me in the eye. "You're right. You're always bloody right, on all accounts. Apart from the biggest one," he says, and I tense all over.

My leg ceases movement and my hands clench into my trousers. "Which point? Which did I deduce wrongly, and how could I have?" I mutter austerely, my gaze narrowed. "Tell me!" and I pound my fist on the armrest.

John cracks a smile. An odd smile I am not familiar with. He shakes his head. "For once, Sherlock, you observed, but you didn't see. You made all these assumptions, but you left out what's been there for a really, really long time, before you fell, before even I realized. You saw it the first night, in fact. I didn't. Took me a while. But there can be exceptions, Sherlock."

"What do you mean? What are you implying? John, you aren't making any reasonable sense. Out with it directly, if you don't mind," I say by default. My mind is a blur, thinking too quickly, recapping memories and fantasies alike, swirling and mixing into a vat of acid that is disintegrating my brain cells one by one. He can't mean. He can't possibly be implying. But what if he is? If that kiss –

"God," he half-laughs, as if it's absurd. Maybe it is. "I didn't see it coming, but I thought you might. You're way more observant, far cleverer than me. But even you can be stumped, huh?"

"You have always been a paradoxical riddle to me, John," I murmur. "It doesn't come as a surprise to me that I have been trumped by you, helplessly baffled by something you've done. Because you are a walking contradiction in the best possible way, average and extraordinary in equal parts, so it's no wonder. No small wonder at all."

He smiles genuinely at that. "Oh, Sherlock," he says, and he stands and walks around behind me. I follow him with my eyes until the weight of his arms drops onto my shoulders. "Because you're _you,_ this dangerous and brilliant and energetic and eccentric and frustrating and amazing man, I couldn't help getting sucked in. No one has captured my interest like you. You draw me in with insults and life-threatening scenarios, and I love it and hate it, and at the end of the day, you lull me to sleep with your violin or keep me up at all hours with an experiment, and I've said it before, that I'm never bored, and it's true. But it isn't a bad thing. The opposite, in fact."

"_John_," I say, and I crane my head back to peer up at him, mouth parted. I want him to kiss me again. But I wait to hear if he has anything else to say, because I love the sound of his voice, the way his words hold me captive.

"Men don't attract me, but you do. And, hard as I try not to, every woman I date I wind up comparing to you, and I've come to accept that no one can ever compare to you. I swear it was all an accident, this," he says, gesturing to us, then bringing up his other hand to match the one he settles on my face after the gesture is made. One of his thumbs touches the corner of my mouth, the junction where my lips meet. "I didn't have the intention at all at first. You intrigued me in the weirdest way, but that was the end of it. I dunno when, exactly, but it happened at one point, and since you've returned, I've had all these fantasies in my head of moments where I beat sense into you, moments where I get some answers, or an apology, and moments where I'm just kissing the daylights out of you."

And I smile at that, eyes hooded, because I would like that. And I am glad that I am not the only one who partakes in Guilty Pleasures about his flatmate. "Now that I know, it seems pointless to refrain from doing so, don't you agree?"

"Cheeky bastard," he whispers, but he's already bending down to bring out lips together. His bottom lip slots between mine, his upper lip cradled in the divot between my bottom lip and cleft of my chin. I reach up and cup my hands on either side of his head, and breathe against his Adam's apple, and feel the gusts of his breaths from his nose on my throat. It's perfect. Better than anything I could have imagined. And if we opened out mouths, our tastebuds would touch, and just the thought sends a thrill through me, a swell of happiness.

But John pulls away – the angle is a bit awkward, especially for my neck, and he knows that – and curves around to lift me to my feet.

He presses himself against me and I duck my head to kiss him again, the angle much better; my way of apologizing. Then he holds me for a while, a silent apology of his own.

We don't to say it.

(We don't need to.)

He loves me; I see that now. He's shown me. He's explained how he can, why he does. And, in so many words and reactions, I hope he understands the same from me. It's taken me a while to lift the denial and say it often in my head, but I know it, now, how greatly I treasure him, love him. And knowing that John reciprocates just about steals whatever reserve I had left.

#

John doesn't know about my Guilty Pleasures. And now, he never has to. They are a secret that is meaningless either way; whether he knows or not, it really won't matter now that we've established a new take on our relationship. If he knew, he would think me a hopeless romantic at heart and be amused and flattered. But it's pointless because, now, I can live out a majority of those fantasies as my everyday life, if I please.

I have permission to walk up to John and kiss him without a reason, aside from simply wanting to. It's all right to come into the bathroom while he's shaving and take a shower, because we're comfortable enough, because we've already seen each other in various states of undress.

I can, within my personality range and his, within believable reason, slide into his bed at night and hold him. I can murmur seductive things in his ear. I can, essentially, do as I please.

And it's bliss. I still have my moods, and he his, and we still get into domestic fights of our own brand, and I still criticize and he still calls me names when I anger him, but overall, I am the happiest I have ever been, and I have never been very happy unless I'm on a particularly intriguing case.

And I think I make John happy. He hasn't left me yet, and he doesn't seem like he's going to; even though all the things I manage to force and drag him into, even after all the arguments. I ask too much of him sometimes, but I make it up to him with bouts of affection during the off-periods of our work. And I think he's satisfied with that.

I know I am.

##


End file.
